Dear Fridigar Elite,
I can't stand the strain you are putting on my marriage. Every time I close your stained cream doors, you pop open (ever so slightly). I swear I push you in, but you keeping popping open again and again and again and again and again. Somehow, you never pop open for Shawn. He opens your tiny door to fill his ice trays; he slides the ice trays back, and shuts your doors. Magically, you stay shut! I open the door on the refrigerator side, and after I've left the kitchen, pop, the freezer opens. Next thing I know, Shawn is screaming at me from the kitchen accusing me of not shutting the freezer door. I tell him that I never opened the freezer. He doesn't believe me. He'd rather take your side. Your ugly old stained leaking creaking melting side. Despite your funky odor, worn out rubber, rusty trays, and frozen meat drawer, he always listens to what you have to say. Well, I'm sick of you. I'm sick of the chaos. I sick of the shouting matches. I have two choices: divorce or fifteen percent off all appliances at Sears. You or free standard delivery on a beautiful, KitchAid Fridge with Stainless Steel KitchenAid 22.6 cu. ft. and Bottom Freezer Refrigerator. Not only will I not have to get divorced, but they will haul you away for free!
Have fun popping open at the dump!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Your Fellow Classmates' Blogs
These are the blogs I have so far:
www.hbaker1.blogspot.com
www.ahamm3.blogspot.com
www.jlopez23.blogspot.com
www.monropipe.blogspot.com
www.cbartoli.blogspot.com
http://nwhite10.blogspot.com
http://blog.jmunzing.com/archive/category/school
http://mernstjournal.blogspot.com/
http://abrieva.blogspot.com/
www.hbaker1.blogspot.com
www.ahamm3.blogspot.com
www.jlopez23.blogspot.com
www.monropipe.blogspot.com
www.cbartoli.blogspot.com
http://nwhite10.blogspot.com
http://blog.jmunzing.com/archive/category/school
http://mernstjournal.blogspot.com/
http://abrieva.blogspot.com/
Friday, January 25, 2008
Feeling good about a comment, even though it’s offensive in a way
As everyone in my department knows (from my refusal to keep candy in the writing center, and my constant light and fit yogurt eating), I've been on nutrisystem for two weeks. I love it. It makes the lackadaisical side of me very happy. My horrid plus-size jeans are delightfully too big on me and my shirts already hang ackwardly off my shoulders. The true test of new weight loss project was the dreaded comment. The "you look so much healthier or thinner, just plain better" comment. Before I decided call nutrisystem, I dreaded the thought of people telling me I looked better. I thought that if they told me I looked better then that meant I really looked like,well, shit. I'd rather fight the plus-size girls are hot fight than hear that I look better. However, I have this friend, C. She is smart, loud, and brutally honest. We ran into eachother in the hallway. She looked at me and said," Wow, your looking better already." Then she brushed her hand across her neck and said, "especially there."
Ugh. Especially there. My big fat neck. I've tried to ignore it since I had a child. I told myself that my neck only looked fat in pictures. But, it actually looked fat all the time. I really needed to do something about it. Not for societies expectations, but for me. So, when C told me I looked better there instead of cringing, I smiled and said thank you.
Ugh. Especially there. My big fat neck. I've tried to ignore it since I had a child. I told myself that my neck only looked fat in pictures. But, it actually looked fat all the time. I really needed to do something about it. Not for societies expectations, but for me. So, when C told me I looked better there instead of cringing, I smiled and said thank you.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Old Stories You Might Find Interesting
Morning In Jerusalem
It is a little past four in the morning and I cannot
sleep. My internal clock is screaming at me, so is the
baby. I'm not sure who built this house, but I'm
starting to think Jesus may have turned water into
wine next door. I think I watched a chunk of the wall
fall to the ground. I thought that I knew Jerusalem,
but I'm confused. I got lost like three times walking
to that playgroup. I don't understand why my sister
felt the need to live close to so many relics. I'm
frightened of falling in a large hole. I'll open my
eyes and find a small group of smelly, teva-clad Brown
students trying to figure out what archeological pile
I fit into. Then they'll find little Jacob tipped
over in his bugaboo stroller. They'll decide that the
Bal Shem Tov really is the Moshiach and he's come back
as an Israeli child stuffed into an American pram.
Chaos will ensue, Hasids will be running
everywhere...they'll fly in the Moshiach Mobile.
When I thought I had finally freed myself from the trenches of the old city, I pushed the baby toward a group of Korean Catholics. I thought I'd be able to wind my way through them. I thought they would step aside for a nice Jewish girl and a beautiful baby. Apparently baby edicate was not on their minds. They were focused on one task: following Jesus. Suddenly I'm trapped on the Via Delarosa with a busload of Koreans. Station after station they push and prod me toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And despite my life-long addiction to Christ imagery, all I can think is: Holy Fudge-Sticks, this guy fell a lot.
Subway ride
I'm starting to wonder if a) I'm crazy b) New York really is a tiny place c) my mother is stalking me or d) all of the above.
I went up to my grandmother's in the Bronx today. She insists on a visit before I leave for Israel. Sounds simple right? It is not simple. She's the matriarch of a dying shul in the Bronx, not Riverdale..the real Bronx. The Sunday before every trip to Israel, she gathers her dysfunctional flock and they write notes to put into the wall. Not short notes like: Blessed is Hashem who saved my sister from cancer. Long notes, the kind of notes you write in your journal and then analyze with your therapist, who then calls your psychiatrist to put you on some better meds. Today she put them in a ripped plastic bag. Poorly written novellas fall at my feet.
"Do you have an extra bag?" I asked her, with all the sincerity I could muster. She looks up at me, her 4'2" body growing to giant status.
"What, are my bags not good enough for you?"
SO, of course, I end up trucking up steps of the White Plains road stop, prayers flying everywhere. Once onboard the 2 train, a teenage girl with mismatched red high heels and a shirt that read: Jesus Listens looked at my bag of prayers with contempt. I plopped down next to her. As the train prodded down into the darkness of the Grand Concourse more and more people squished into the train. My bag ripped farther. When the train came to a stop at 72nd, I heard a voice,
"You can't leave if you haven't voted yet"
"Vote?" I thought to myself, "does this person think I'm walking around with high school prom ballots stuffed into a ripped plastic bag?"
Then I turned and there in T-shirt with a giant picture of George W's face crossed out (with what appeared to be red magic marker) stood my mother. My mother!! My mother never rides the subway. My mother never wears t-shirts. She is a tried and true upper Westside liberal who takes the bus, wears vegetarian sneakers, and spends $200 on olives at Zabar's.
The Bike Fitter
Lately, I find myself drawn to R and A cycles on 5th. It is a crowded bike shop filled with novice riders, tourists, and amateur cyclists pouring through racks and racks of thousand dollar bikes. Small children push passed precariously placed Cervelos. I find myself waiting with anxious guilty excitement for a carbon fiber frame to come crashing down on some poorly dressed German tourist. Their skinny body momentarily crushed by a 20 pound four thousand dollar Colnago road bike. As the confused German attempts to get up, her fanny pack gets caught on the bottom bracket. Would I laugh or cry or try to help the woman. My fantasy has never gotten passed the fanny pack. The shop is broken down into three small rooms. In the middle room, a tall good-looking Puerto Rican fits buyers to their overpriced bikes. I love to watch him work. It's not his ability to use a tape measure that I admire, but his ability to make all of his "clients" feel like shit. To him, nobody is good enough for his or her bike. They are too short, too tall, too fat, or too inexperienced. I've seen him mock the so-called fat stomachs of every in shape man he fits. Though, I must admit, these men take his criticism in stride. It is as if they listen to the BIKE FITTER GOSPEL of FITNESS, all their cycling fantasies will be fulfilled. If they just loose one more pound off their toned bodies, their dreams of winning the Giro d'italia will come true. Podium girls are practically pushing through the bike shop doors to hand out the maglia rosa. Nothing adds to a man's sex appeal like a tight pink cycling jersey.
However, it is not the men's egos I truly worry about. Although the fitter directs his disconcerting cruelty toward the men, it seems that it is their female counter-parts that feel the sting. I've watched women of all shapes and sizes cower in the corner as the fitter barks his fitness regimen at husbands, boyfriends, best friends, and gay partners-in-crime. One woman sticks in my mind more than anyone. It must have been April when I wandered into the shop looking for my cruelty fix. The husband hunched over a brand new black and white Cervelo shook his head seriously as the fitter sternly lectured on how the customer's 6'4" 230 pound frame was not truly fit for cycling. " Look at that belly" the fitter muttered pointing to a miniscule piece of flesh barley touching the man's bright orange Wheaties jersey. " You must give up Dairy. Or you'll start producing milk yourself!" He pronounced. The husband nodded seriously as if Mohammed had just shown him the path to Allah. The wife, on the other hand, sat silently on the floor trying to hold their infant still. With every harsh word about her husband's body, she curled herself smaller and smaller, pressing the baby closer. It was not her baby she was trying to protect, however, it was herself. She was one of those woman that society tells you to mock and you're not sure why. Short and voluptuous, she was the kind of woman men spent hours painting, but a modern fashion photographer would laugh out of a room. Her almond-shaped eyes were soulful and large. The tears starting to shine turned her irises a shinning forest green. She slowly gnawed at her pouty bottom lip. Despite the fitters focus on her husband, I could tell that she felt that all his cruel words were directed at her. I watched for what seemed like hours and she tried harder and harder to fade into the dirty black carpet...
It is a little past four in the morning and I cannot
sleep. My internal clock is screaming at me, so is the
baby. I'm not sure who built this house, but I'm
starting to think Jesus may have turned water into
wine next door. I think I watched a chunk of the wall
fall to the ground. I thought that I knew Jerusalem,
but I'm confused. I got lost like three times walking
to that playgroup. I don't understand why my sister
felt the need to live close to so many relics. I'm
frightened of falling in a large hole. I'll open my
eyes and find a small group of smelly, teva-clad Brown
students trying to figure out what archeological pile
I fit into. Then they'll find little Jacob tipped
over in his bugaboo stroller. They'll decide that the
Bal Shem Tov really is the Moshiach and he's come back
as an Israeli child stuffed into an American pram.
Chaos will ensue, Hasids will be running
everywhere...they'll fly in the Moshiach Mobile.
When I thought I had finally freed myself from the trenches of the old city, I pushed the baby toward a group of Korean Catholics. I thought I'd be able to wind my way through them. I thought they would step aside for a nice Jewish girl and a beautiful baby. Apparently baby edicate was not on their minds. They were focused on one task: following Jesus. Suddenly I'm trapped on the Via Delarosa with a busload of Koreans. Station after station they push and prod me toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And despite my life-long addiction to Christ imagery, all I can think is: Holy Fudge-Sticks, this guy fell a lot.
Subway ride
I'm starting to wonder if a) I'm crazy b) New York really is a tiny place c) my mother is stalking me or d) all of the above.
I went up to my grandmother's in the Bronx today. She insists on a visit before I leave for Israel. Sounds simple right? It is not simple. She's the matriarch of a dying shul in the Bronx, not Riverdale..the real Bronx. The Sunday before every trip to Israel, she gathers her dysfunctional flock and they write notes to put into the wall. Not short notes like: Blessed is Hashem who saved my sister from cancer. Long notes, the kind of notes you write in your journal and then analyze with your therapist, who then calls your psychiatrist to put you on some better meds. Today she put them in a ripped plastic bag. Poorly written novellas fall at my feet.
"Do you have an extra bag?" I asked her, with all the sincerity I could muster. She looks up at me, her 4'2" body growing to giant status.
"What, are my bags not good enough for you?"
SO, of course, I end up trucking up steps of the White Plains road stop, prayers flying everywhere. Once onboard the 2 train, a teenage girl with mismatched red high heels and a shirt that read: Jesus Listens looked at my bag of prayers with contempt. I plopped down next to her. As the train prodded down into the darkness of the Grand Concourse more and more people squished into the train. My bag ripped farther. When the train came to a stop at 72nd, I heard a voice,
"You can't leave if you haven't voted yet"
"Vote?" I thought to myself, "does this person think I'm walking around with high school prom ballots stuffed into a ripped plastic bag?"
Then I turned and there in T-shirt with a giant picture of George W's face crossed out (with what appeared to be red magic marker) stood my mother. My mother!! My mother never rides the subway. My mother never wears t-shirts. She is a tried and true upper Westside liberal who takes the bus, wears vegetarian sneakers, and spends $200 on olives at Zabar's.
The Bike Fitter
Lately, I find myself drawn to R and A cycles on 5th. It is a crowded bike shop filled with novice riders, tourists, and amateur cyclists pouring through racks and racks of thousand dollar bikes. Small children push passed precariously placed Cervelos. I find myself waiting with anxious guilty excitement for a carbon fiber frame to come crashing down on some poorly dressed German tourist. Their skinny body momentarily crushed by a 20 pound four thousand dollar Colnago road bike. As the confused German attempts to get up, her fanny pack gets caught on the bottom bracket. Would I laugh or cry or try to help the woman. My fantasy has never gotten passed the fanny pack. The shop is broken down into three small rooms. In the middle room, a tall good-looking Puerto Rican fits buyers to their overpriced bikes. I love to watch him work. It's not his ability to use a tape measure that I admire, but his ability to make all of his "clients" feel like shit. To him, nobody is good enough for his or her bike. They are too short, too tall, too fat, or too inexperienced. I've seen him mock the so-called fat stomachs of every in shape man he fits. Though, I must admit, these men take his criticism in stride. It is as if they listen to the BIKE FITTER GOSPEL of FITNESS, all their cycling fantasies will be fulfilled. If they just loose one more pound off their toned bodies, their dreams of winning the Giro d'italia will come true. Podium girls are practically pushing through the bike shop doors to hand out the maglia rosa. Nothing adds to a man's sex appeal like a tight pink cycling jersey.
However, it is not the men's egos I truly worry about. Although the fitter directs his disconcerting cruelty toward the men, it seems that it is their female counter-parts that feel the sting. I've watched women of all shapes and sizes cower in the corner as the fitter barks his fitness regimen at husbands, boyfriends, best friends, and gay partners-in-crime. One woman sticks in my mind more than anyone. It must have been April when I wandered into the shop looking for my cruelty fix. The husband hunched over a brand new black and white Cervelo shook his head seriously as the fitter sternly lectured on how the customer's 6'4" 230 pound frame was not truly fit for cycling. " Look at that belly" the fitter muttered pointing to a miniscule piece of flesh barley touching the man's bright orange Wheaties jersey. " You must give up Dairy. Or you'll start producing milk yourself!" He pronounced. The husband nodded seriously as if Mohammed had just shown him the path to Allah. The wife, on the other hand, sat silently on the floor trying to hold their infant still. With every harsh word about her husband's body, she curled herself smaller and smaller, pressing the baby closer. It was not her baby she was trying to protect, however, it was herself. She was one of those woman that society tells you to mock and you're not sure why. Short and voluptuous, she was the kind of woman men spent hours painting, but a modern fashion photographer would laugh out of a room. Her almond-shaped eyes were soulful and large. The tears starting to shine turned her irises a shinning forest green. She slowly gnawed at her pouty bottom lip. Despite the fitters focus on her husband, I could tell that she felt that all his cruel words were directed at her. I watched for what seemed like hours and she tried harder and harder to fade into the dirty black carpet...
Cool Books I love
Fiction for the fun of it:
These first few books are for pure fun. They are the kind of books you leave in the corners of your house. At moments when you are supposed to be cleaning the living room, or changing your clothes, you find yourself squished in a chair, hoping your husband won't discover the tears dripping down your face.
Always a Bridesmaid – Sarah Webb
It had to be you –Sarah Webb
Second Chance- Jane Green
Pieces of My Sister's Life- Elizabeth Joy Arnold
Happiness Sold Separtley – Lolly Winston
Daddy's Girl- Lisa Scottolinni
Harry Potter The Deathly Hallows- JK Rowling
Fiction retelling old stories:
Last One In- Nicholas Kulish (One of my favorite books of the summer. My husband bought it for himself, and I snuck around reading it. It is about a gossip columnist who gets stuck embedded with the marines in Iraq.)
Saving the World- Julia Alverez ( If you've read In the Time of the Butterflies or How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, this book takes her writing to a new level. She intertwines the stories of a modern author steeped in depression and writers block with the story of a nun who shepards 23 orphan boys who act as carriers of the small pox vaccine. I finished the book two months ago, and the images still run crisply through my memories)
The Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus- Margaret Atwood ( The Women's Studies Major in me will always drool over any Margaret Atwood book. However, this series takes her writing to another level. She takes the story of the Odyssey and writes it from Penelope's perspective)
Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles- Jeanette Winterson (another favorite author. It is an intriguing rewrite of the story of Atlas. If you like the way she writes, I also suggest reading Oranges are not the Only fruit.)
When Madeline was Young- Jane Hamilton ( I must admit this book had no plot whatsoever, but there was something in it that kept me turning the pages deep into the night)
Middlesex Jeffrey Eugenides (I believe this book needs no introduction)
Children of Men P.D. James ( Despite the fact it takes place in the future, it reads like a Jane Austin novel. Fluid and descriptive, I found myself trapped in the landscape and the language more than the plot.)
Nonfiction
Schepping through the Alps – Sam Apple ( a quirky travel book about a Jewish Journalist who decides to follow a shepard around the alps)
Spy Wars- Tenneth h. Bagley ( Fast, compelling read. You keep having to check the front of the book to make sure it is non-fiction)
The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East- Sandy Tolan ( Hard to stay focused at times, but it is one of the few books that speaks equally to both sides of the conflict)
Mohammed- Karen Armstrong (one of the worlds foremost theologians whose negative feelings about Israel have left me uncomfortable, but whose deep connection to Islam has taught me a great deal. If you are not interested in a book on Mohammed, I highly suggest you read her autobiography The Spiral Staircase. It tells of her years in a convent and her decision to leave)
Infidel Ayaan Hirsi Ali ( Read it. Then really think about true Islam)
These first few books are for pure fun. They are the kind of books you leave in the corners of your house. At moments when you are supposed to be cleaning the living room, or changing your clothes, you find yourself squished in a chair, hoping your husband won't discover the tears dripping down your face.
Always a Bridesmaid – Sarah Webb
It had to be you –Sarah Webb
Second Chance- Jane Green
Pieces of My Sister's Life- Elizabeth Joy Arnold
Happiness Sold Separtley – Lolly Winston
Daddy's Girl- Lisa Scottolinni
Harry Potter The Deathly Hallows- JK Rowling
Fiction retelling old stories:
Last One In- Nicholas Kulish (One of my favorite books of the summer. My husband bought it for himself, and I snuck around reading it. It is about a gossip columnist who gets stuck embedded with the marines in Iraq.)
Saving the World- Julia Alverez ( If you've read In the Time of the Butterflies or How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, this book takes her writing to a new level. She intertwines the stories of a modern author steeped in depression and writers block with the story of a nun who shepards 23 orphan boys who act as carriers of the small pox vaccine. I finished the book two months ago, and the images still run crisply through my memories)
The Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus- Margaret Atwood ( The Women's Studies Major in me will always drool over any Margaret Atwood book. However, this series takes her writing to another level. She takes the story of the Odyssey and writes it from Penelope's perspective)
Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles- Jeanette Winterson (another favorite author. It is an intriguing rewrite of the story of Atlas. If you like the way she writes, I also suggest reading Oranges are not the Only fruit.)
When Madeline was Young- Jane Hamilton ( I must admit this book had no plot whatsoever, but there was something in it that kept me turning the pages deep into the night)
Middlesex Jeffrey Eugenides (I believe this book needs no introduction)
Children of Men P.D. James ( Despite the fact it takes place in the future, it reads like a Jane Austin novel. Fluid and descriptive, I found myself trapped in the landscape and the language more than the plot.)
Nonfiction
Schepping through the Alps – Sam Apple ( a quirky travel book about a Jewish Journalist who decides to follow a shepard around the alps)
Spy Wars- Tenneth h. Bagley ( Fast, compelling read. You keep having to check the front of the book to make sure it is non-fiction)
The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East- Sandy Tolan ( Hard to stay focused at times, but it is one of the few books that speaks equally to both sides of the conflict)
Mohammed- Karen Armstrong (one of the worlds foremost theologians whose negative feelings about Israel have left me uncomfortable, but whose deep connection to Islam has taught me a great deal. If you are not interested in a book on Mohammed, I highly suggest you read her autobiography The Spiral Staircase. It tells of her years in a convent and her decision to leave)
Infidel Ayaan Hirsi Ali ( Read it. Then really think about true Islam)
Friday, January 18, 2008
If you put your life's philosophy on a t-shirt, what would it be and why?
I'm not the kind of girl who wears t-shirts. In fact, I can't imagine wearing a t-shirt with words written across the front. Worded t-shirts bring to mind loud frat boys or "hot" girls with endless legs, flat stomachs, and long stick-straight hair. I suppose if I fit into one of those categories, my life's philosophy might be "fun" or "excitement", but, alas, I am neither a frat boy or a hot girl. My favorite word in the English language is lackadaisical; however, lacking spirit or liveliness does not describe my life's philosophy. Gregarious is another word that comes to mind, but, again, although social and outgoing describe pieces of my personality, it is far from my life's philosophy.
I have a small tattoo on the side of my right ankle with the word Individual scripted in Chinese. I got the tattoo a couple weeks after I started college. Every time I tell people my tattoo story, they laugh at the thought of a eighteen-year-old first taste of liberation tattoo. But the word has more meaning to me than the freedom of living a thousand miles away from my parents. I've never been a leader, and I've never been a follower. I've always done what I thought was best. Al tough I love politics, I've never picked a party. I grew up in a ultra-liberal, bordering on socialist town in the Midwest. My friend's parents had spent their college days hiding from the Vietnam draft deep the the classrooms of University of Wisconsin. They picketed the war; they even bombed a building (sterling hall) in protest of the war. As my friends entered high school, they followed their parents lead. Despite their wealth,they ran around in goodwill rags or punk rock t-shirts. Despite the fact only one African-American walked the halls of our high school, they held multi-cultural meetings on the schools huge lawn. They even played protest music on their guitars during lunch. I found their clothes and their meetings pretentious and fake. I argued with them in political science class. They called themselves unique, but they were all carbon copies of each other. They were hippie-punk rock-socialist stepford kids. As adults, they followed the paths of their parents. Most of them work as associate professors at small liberal arts colleges and protest the war on the weekends.
I find nothing wrong with protesting, and obviously I find nothing wrong with teaching at a college, but I find their close-mindedness possessing as open-mindedness appalling. If you didn't attend their multicultural meeting, or weekly protests you were labeled as stupid. If you chose to wear new matching clothes, you were called a sell-out. I always dressed however I wanted to dress and participated in activities I felt were right, not what a group of peers dictated.
As I've gotten older, I've held on tightly to my individuality. I look at the world through pragmatic lenses. I make judgments based on how ideas or people are going to effect each other. I don't believe in arguments that follow certain ideologies. I would never vote for someone just because they are a Democrat, just as i would never vote for someone just because they are a Republican. I listen to NPR in the car and at work;I listen to conservative talk radio in the car. There are moments when I find Rush Limbaugh funny and intelligent and moments when I want to throw him down the stairs. My mixed worldview and my refusal to put myself into someone else's category defines me. Some people love it. Some people hate it. But if I were to write something on a t-shirt describing myself, I suppose I'd put: Individual.
I have a small tattoo on the side of my right ankle with the word Individual scripted in Chinese. I got the tattoo a couple weeks after I started college. Every time I tell people my tattoo story, they laugh at the thought of a eighteen-year-old first taste of liberation tattoo. But the word has more meaning to me than the freedom of living a thousand miles away from my parents. I've never been a leader, and I've never been a follower. I've always done what I thought was best. Al tough I love politics, I've never picked a party. I grew up in a ultra-liberal, bordering on socialist town in the Midwest. My friend's parents had spent their college days hiding from the Vietnam draft deep the the classrooms of University of Wisconsin. They picketed the war; they even bombed a building (sterling hall) in protest of the war. As my friends entered high school, they followed their parents lead. Despite their wealth,they ran around in goodwill rags or punk rock t-shirts. Despite the fact only one African-American walked the halls of our high school, they held multi-cultural meetings on the schools huge lawn. They even played protest music on their guitars during lunch. I found their clothes and their meetings pretentious and fake. I argued with them in political science class. They called themselves unique, but they were all carbon copies of each other. They were hippie-punk rock-socialist stepford kids. As adults, they followed the paths of their parents. Most of them work as associate professors at small liberal arts colleges and protest the war on the weekends.
I find nothing wrong with protesting, and obviously I find nothing wrong with teaching at a college, but I find their close-mindedness possessing as open-mindedness appalling. If you didn't attend their multicultural meeting, or weekly protests you were labeled as stupid. If you chose to wear new matching clothes, you were called a sell-out. I always dressed however I wanted to dress and participated in activities I felt were right, not what a group of peers dictated.
As I've gotten older, I've held on tightly to my individuality. I look at the world through pragmatic lenses. I make judgments based on how ideas or people are going to effect each other. I don't believe in arguments that follow certain ideologies. I would never vote for someone just because they are a Democrat, just as i would never vote for someone just because they are a Republican. I listen to NPR in the car and at work;I listen to conservative talk radio in the car. There are moments when I find Rush Limbaugh funny and intelligent and moments when I want to throw him down the stairs. My mixed worldview and my refusal to put myself into someone else's category defines me. Some people love it. Some people hate it. But if I were to write something on a t-shirt describing myself, I suppose I'd put: Individual.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
First Day
Welcome to our first Composition class! First, let me introduce myself. I am Mrs. Marty. I am an instructor and writing specialist at Del Tech. I am in the Writing Center Monday 10-4, Wednesday 10-6, and Friday 12-4. When I'm not in the Writing Center, I am teaching either Composition or Critical Reading.
If you are dreaming of lugging around journals, waiting days to get them back, and receiving insightful comments like "Nice thought" or "Great Journal!", wake up!
Instead of creating a traditional writing journal, each of you will create your own blog. Each week I will give a blog assignment, and you will post it on your blog.
Your semester goal is to create a college-level research paper. One of the biggest obstacles people face when creating a research paper is using the Internet. By writing online each week, you will feel less overwhelmed when it comes to researching your paper!
Good luck!
Instead of creating a traditional writing journal, each of you will create your own blog. Each week I will give a blog assignment, and you will post it on your blog.
Your semester goal is to create a college-level research paper. One of the biggest obstacles people face when creating a research paper is using the Internet. By writing online each week, you will feel less overwhelmed when it comes to researching your paper!
Good luck!
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